Fire with Fire

IT’S FINALLY NEW YEAR’S EVE.

Snow is coming tonight, a few inches. And the wind is howling. Rennie’s party will still go on for sure. I just hope the ferry runs tomorrow. I can’t wait to see my mom and dad.

I have a special outfit planned for the trip home. Pencil skirt, heels, a cream-colored blouse. I want to look beautiful and mature when they see me again. I want them to see that, see how I’ve grown. They mean well, but they’ve always babied me so much. When I go back with them, I want them to treat me like a teenager and not a kid.

But first I have a party to attend and two very special people to say good-bye to.

I take my time doing my hair and makeup. I paint my lips ruby red and put my hair in a bun. I put on a dress I found in my closet—it’s white with gold bangles and beads and a drop waist. I scramble around for my gold slingbacks.

The doorbell rings. Geez, those preservation ladies won’t quit. I figure Aunt Bette won’t answer like usual, but the doorbell keeps chiming, insistent.

Weird.

Eventually, I hear Aunt Bette open the door.

“Erica?”

I freeze.

“Oh my God, Bette. Look at this place.”

That voice. I haven’t heard it for so long.

My mother. She’s . . . she’s here! I leap up and hurry down the stairs and when I see her, I stop short.

Mommy?

There she is, standing in the foyer in a long black coat. Her hair is gray, almost as gray as Aunt Bette’s. How could she have aged overnight? I haven’t been gone that long.

“What’s that noise?” my mom asks.

“It’s Mary,” Aunt Bette says.

My mom says, “Bette, please. Please don’t torture me like this.”

I stop dead in my tracks. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

I can feel the heat and the panic rising up inside me. The picture frames on the staircase walls start to shake, and I have to tell myself to calm down, just calm down.

Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown.

“You need help, Bette,” my mom says, and she sounds like she’s crying. “I’m taking you away from here. This house is making you sick. Those preservation people have been calling, and with good reason. Look around!”

“No no, I’m fine, Erica,” Aunt Bette says desperately. “Mary wants to leave! I’ll be better when she’s gone!”

“This house is in shambles, and you’re—you’re not well,” my mom chokes out. “You can’t stay here any longer.”

Aunt Bette backs up. “You should see her, Erica. Talk to her. Tell her about Jim. Maybe that will help her.”

Jim’s my dad.

“Bette . . . please stop it,” my mother says, and her voice sounds pained. “Stop talking about her.”

What’s going on? Did they have a fight? Did they get separated in the time that I’ve been gone—is that why they haven’t been back to visit?

“We’re leaving. Now.” Mom has the door open. I stare at it and force it closed. She’s shocked as the knob flies out of her hand. The door bangs shut, and the dead bolt clicks.

Aunt Bette cries, “Mary! Stop! You’re going to scare her!”

Ignoring her, I run to my bed and grab my suitcase and go flying down the stairs and out the door. “Mommy! I’m coming with you! Don’t leave without me!”

But then I hear the back door opening. I go to my window and see my mom with her arm around Aunt Bette, trying to walk her to the rental car. They’re leaving? Without me?

I race back downstairs and out to the car.

My mom is sobbing. She doesn’t even look at me. “Bette, please, please, get in the car.”

I run up to her. “Mommy!” I scream. I’m howling now, and the shutters on the house are opening and closing, faster and faster. I can’t stop it; I can’t control myself.

“Oh my God!” my mom screams, and she jerks the passenger-side door open and pushes Aunt Bette inside. She runs to the other side of the car and stumbles and falls to the ground.

I run after her, sobbing. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” I cry. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I want to go home!”

Her eyes widen in shock. “Mary, is that you?”

“Don’t leave me,” I beg. She struggles to get up, and I wait for her to hug me, to hold me to her close. It’s been so long, Mommy.

But she doesn’t move toward me; she runs to the other side of the car and gets in. I pound on the window so hard the glass starts to crack.

“I’m sorry,” she weeps. “I’m so sorry. I can’t stay.” Her hands shake as she starts the car, puts it in reverse, and drives away.